


on poet presidents and philosopher kings

by dnbroughs



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston, X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Coming Out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erik Has Feelings, FSTOUS erik, Gay Charles Xavier, M/M, POTUS Edie, Political Campaigns, Prince Charles - Freeform, Red White & Royal Blue AU, Slow Burn, Transatlantic Love Affairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23744068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dnbroughs/pseuds/dnbroughs
Summary: Still, her husband-to-be was the son of some Portugese noble, so he hoped there’d be some decent food besides cucumber sandwiches and trifle but he doubted it.What he doubted even more though, was that he could go the whole event without seeing Charles.red, white & royal blue au
Relationships: Emma Frost/Moira MacTaggert, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr/Magda (X-Men), Ruth Lehnsherr/Madga (X-Men), Ruth Lehnsherr/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	on poet presidents and philosopher kings

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this idea in my head for so long and i'm stuck in quarantine so there's no better time to write this really. i love this book so so much and i hope i can do the plot some justice, i've just tweaked a few things to make it fit better for cherik. i'm going to be borrowing a few lines from the book (because how can i not) so i'd like to put a disclaimer now that this is based on the wonderful work of casey mcquiston and i own absolutely nothing. please let me know what you think, the chapters from here on out will be longer and while number of chapters is concrete at 14 for now, this may change at some point.  
> enjoy! <3

If there was one thing about his mother’s job Erik would never tire from, it’s private aviation. Already in her third year of her first term as POTUS, it was still rare that Erik would be granted access to the plane. Usually events took place close enough that a train or a car would suffice. Every so often, though, there was an event big enough that required use of the jet, and that meant Erik got to feel like a badass for a few hours, before they touched down wherever they were required to be. This time, London, for the wedding of two white bread royals who were probably each other’s cousins. 

To be fair, he had completely forgotten about it. Ruth had barged in while he was writing his poli sci paper, not that she usually knocks and waits for permission, to read him the headlines of every gossip magazine sold in D.C. It had become a ritual of theirs to read over the news every week, out of pure boredom and novelty at first, and although now it amused and infuriated their mother in equal parts, Ruth insisted she liked to keep on top of public opinion, and well, Erik was just vain enough to see if they’d used his good side. 

“Which one do you think?” she’d asked as Erik flipped one of his dad’s old records on the player, the twanging notes of the first song on Live At Folsom Prison crackling away. “The blue dress or the lace one?”

“Since when do you ask me for advice you won’t take?” He snarked as he flopped back on his bed and opened People magazine, skimming some article about bikini bodies-  _ it was fucking March _ \- as he lamented all the study time he was wasting.

“Because I’m your sister and you want Vogue to put me on the best dressed guest list. Do you think I can get away with not wearing a fascinator? The headband part really hurts behind my ears.”

“Umm-” Erik deadpanned, leaning up on his elbows to stare at his sister. “You wanna tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Ruth groaned, rubbing the heels of her hands painfully hard into her eyes. “Of course you forgot. Of course my little brother forgot the biggest state event of the year the day before it happens.”

The offended ‘I’m not little’ was on the tip of his tongue but before he could say it he was hit in the face with a copy of US Weekly.

_ Princess Peggy gets hitched!  _ Erik read the headline and groaned, wanting to punch a wall or maybe the two royal assholes on the front cover. Of course he had to go to a royal wedding that weekend. It wasn’t as if he’d had three suit fittings and a lesson on the difference between a viscount and a marquis (spoiler, who the fuck cares), and he shoved his pillow over his head to drown out Ruth blathering on about their synchronised calander that he absolutely still had notifications on for, and wished and hoped and prayed she’d get sidetracked by something before she lectured him on ‘the responisbilities and expectations of the family of elected representatives of the state’. He could recite it in his sleep by this point. 

Whenever she got on his back like this, Erik wondered why she was still living here. She’d graduated from UPenn with a degree in English and International Relations before his mom was elected into office, and now at almost 25, she was fielding offers left right and centre for columns and op-ed pieces in every magazine and newspaper in the country. Hell, she’d had a guest editor spot at Teen Vogue four times now, there was no way she was staying here because she couldn’t afford to move out, or even because she didn’t want to get a place of her own. Instinctively, Erik knew she stayed to keep an eye on him, which infuriated him to no end, but made him feel extremely guilty in equal measure. Guilt prevaled as she waffled on about tradition and centre pieces and floral arrangements, mainly because he wanted more than anything for her to shut the fuck up.

Still, there was one reason and one reason only he was keeping his complaints to a minimum: the plane.

“It’s a fucked up establishment anyway,” he sulked as he ripped open another packet of pistachios and held his water bottle steady as they hit another patch of turbulence. “It represents decades of imperialism and empiricism and I don’t see why we’re still buying into it.”

“It’s the corgis, I can’t help but root for them.” Magda mumbled, focused completely on painting her nails duck egg blue and pale yellow, alternating the colours nail by nail, and managing not to smudge despite the rough jolting of the plane and the one errant piece of hair that had escaped a pin curl and was now hanging in front of her face.

Magda was the daughter of Peter Gurzsky, Edie’s VP. Erik didn’t really like the guy, for no reason other than he always seemed to know the absolute worst time to show up to the Executive Residence, and he still denies to this day that he was  _ not  _ crying at Beaches, thank you. Still, he had good polish grandparents, and the Texan took a gamble with Edie, willing to take a chance on a girl born in Pennsylvania but with roots in Warsaw, and without him they probably wouldn’t have been able to pull the southern states on side. Gossip rags in the early days lived for him and Magda. They’d met properly once Edie was sworn in and they decided to get the inevitable fling over with. It lasted a grand total of one summer before Magda had to return to MIT for the fall semester. Truth be told, it was fun, when the pair of them believed they were the smartest person in the room and were flushed with a new found sense of celebrity. Now, at 20 and 21, Erik concedes that Magda is absolutely smarter than him and they occasionally get drunk in hotel rooms and watch crap TV while making moaning noises, just to keep the rumour mills grinding.

“You are aware that America is founded on years of racially fuelled genocide too. We’re actually kind of famous for it.” Ruth chirps from next to him, reading a copy of Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins with one hand and unraveling a ball of yarn for Moira- his mom’s personal security cum assistant cum fucking mystery- with the other, her eyes never leaving the page.

“Yeah well at least we got rid of the monarchy.” He grumbled, looking out of the window to nothing but clouds.

“Scared your prince won’t dance with you, Bub?” Logan piped up from his hotboxed corner of the plane (how the fuck he managed to smoke a cigar on a government aircraft without anyone batting an eyelid Erik will never know), his Secret Service issue gun lay casually on the small table before him.

Only the fact that his mother was sitting somewhere nearby stopped him from flipping Logan off. “I’m more concerned he’ll start making out with one of his cousins actually.”

And this at least got a snort from Moira. “I heard they dropped 75 large on the wedding cake.” 

Moira, for the record, scared the shit out of Erik, more so when she was like this, crocheting an afghan, more than ever. He was pretty sure he’d seen her almost kill a guy with one of those needles.

Honestly, of all the royals, Princess Margaret, known affectionately in the tabloids as Peggy, was probably the least vanilla of the lot. Back in the day, while the others were in the army somewhere or announcing patronages of charities, Princess Margaret was known for being a bit of a wild child, in the sense that she wore her skirts above the knee rather than below them. She hardly did anything crazy, but considering she was the heir to the throne, she did some things she probably shouldn’t have done, namely getting photographed with her tongue down some blonde, ex-veteran beefcake’s throat. There wasn’t much more she did that Erik would consider exciting, but she was the only one who seemed to get riskily close to being political, and Erik liked to see the British sweat. Still, her husband-to-be was the son of some Portugese noble, so he hoped there’d be some decent food besides cucumber sandwiches and trifle at this wedding but he doubted it.

What he doubted even more though, was that he could go the whole event without seeing Charles.

Charles was, at the minute, Erik’s sworn enemy, in the sense that he’s a dick and Erik can’t stand to be in his line of sight for more than fifteen seconds. Thankfully, Erik barely had to see him at all, but his mom seems to keep pushing for greater Anglo-American relations, so the time he’s had to spend with Charles in the past couple of years has increased tenfold, and Erik thinks its his mothers way of punishing him for dropping a priceless vase on his first day in the house and hiding the broken remnants in his en suit for six months after. He’s loathe to admit it, but it’s a fucking good punishment. Even the thought of being in the same room as prim and proper Charles has his fingers twitching and his brow sweating. 

Ever since his mother was sworn in, the global media had pinned him as the American equivalent of Prince Charles, since the White House Trio- him, Ruth, and Magda- is the closest thing they have to England’s royal family. It was hardly ever a fair comparison, seeing as Erik’s whole thing is being brooding and stoic and thoughtful on the cover of Gentleman’s Weekly at nineteen, while Charles is floppy hair and blank smiles and fucking jumpers and wellies. There is intent in everything Erik does. If he fucks up, says something that pisses off some bum-fuck state or fucks someone who can’t keep their mouth shut or flunks a test, his mother’s job is on the line. Edie Lehnsherr has worked long and hard to become the first female president of the United States of America, having everything criticised from her footwear to where her parents were from, and Erik would be damned if it was something he did that fucked all that up for her. Charles could start a fucking nuclear war and the power and position his family had squandered would keep him all swaddled and safe until it blew over and he could carry on playing polo.

There was no comparison with him and Charles. Erik worked hard to maintain his image and his character for his mother, and in his own right too. Being a malleable, bland Prince Charming schmuck is a much easier role to play.

-

Chance, as it turned out, was a fine fucking thing. 

The ceremony itself was boring. Princess Margaret, Erik had to admit, looked great in her ridiculously expensive McQueen dress that was probably hand stitched by orphans, and her new husband looked alright too, decked out in military regalia red. He was fortunately sat on the same side of the main chamber of the abbey as the Royal family, so Erik wouldn’t be tormented with having to look across the aisle at Charles. What Erik didn’t consider, though, was the fact that, seeing as their father, Prince Brian, had died years and years ago, and with their mother nowhere to be found, Charles had ended up walking Princess Margaret down the aisle, seeing as she was next in line to the throne, taking her father’s place in the succession, and Charles was then after her, leaving their youngest sister Raven without even a glimpse at Queendom. As they mader their way down the aisle, Erik kept his eyes on his order of mass and the ornate altar, not sparing Charles even a glance.

Now, though, sat at their designated table at the wedding breakfast, Erik has a clear view of Charles in his dove gray suit and tails and that stupid powder blue waistcoat. 

“Odds on me slugging the fucker before the night’s out.” He nudged Magda, downing the champagne in the flute in front of him in one go, wincing as the bubbles popped in his nose.

“Seventy-eight percent chance of you failing to check yourself and being a dick, with ninety percent odds on you doing something stupid and causing a media storm.” Her risk assessment was punctuated with her shoving another profiterole in her mouth

“Those are better odds than I expected.” Ruth piped up from where she’d been talking to one of the Beckhams besides her.

Erik opened his mouth to retort when a ghostly looking butler type tapped Ruth on the shoulder. “Miss Lehnsherr, His Royal Highness Prince Charles wonders if you would honour him with a dance.”   
Erik noted that it wasn’t a question.

“Oh, she'd absolutely  _ love _ to.” Magda practically vibrates, a shit eating grin spread across her face as she forcibly shoves Ruth out of her chair.

Erik’s gaze follows his sister as she meets Charles on the edge of the dancefloor, and their eyes lock. The bastard has the nerve to give him a nod, not one piece of stupidly fluffy hair falling out of place as he does so, before he smiles at Ruth and takes her hand, and then they’re both swirling into the crowd.

“I can’t believe you sent her into the arms of the enemy.” Erik grumbles, taking another gulp of champagne he’d snagged from a passing waiter. He was definitely sloshed. “It’s fucking rediculous.”

“You’re just mad because his ass looks cuter than yours in his suit.” And honestly, Magda practically drools as Charles shifts his weight and the material of his pants stretch tighter over his rear.

“I think he’s finally getting the one up by wooing my sister.”

“Not everything is about you, you know.” 

“It should be.”

“There he is.”

Erik watches as Ruth smiles politely up- no, down, Christ he’s short- at him, and Charles’s back is ramrod straight as he waltzes them around the room.

“Woomp, there it is.” Magda mutters, and Erik catches the flash of a camera, and there’s no doubt that pictures of Ruth and Charles dancing will be plastered over every magazine from here to kingdom come tomorrow. He’s not even looking at her. Why isn’t he even looking at her? Ruth’s the shit, he should at least be paying attention, though Erik supposes he’s good at ignoring a problem until he can get someone to remove it.

When anyone asks when he first met Charles, he tells them at the Olympics in Rio, just before his mother won the election. Erik had introduced himself, and Charles had looked at him as if he wasn’t even there, more an irritating glare of the Brazilian sun than a person. But the first time he  _ saw  _ Charles, he was thirteen. 

Ruth had an obsession with teen magazines back in the day, and their parents had agreed to pay for one subscription for her, but the rest of her addiction she had to fund herself. So, every month like clockwork, a shiny copy of Tiger Beat was shoved into their mailbox, and Ruth would spend the whole day reading every page and doing every quiz, and would then file it away in a bookshelf with a system Erik could only guess. He’d been snooping in her room once when he’d found a copy open on her desk, flipped to the centre pages where the posters lived, the ones you could extract from the magazine if you could lift the staples up with your nails (Erik couldn’t, his were too short). Staring up at him from those centre pages was a boy just a few months younger than him, with chestnut hair curling around his ears and the brightest blue eyes Erik had ever seen, clad in a jersey that was dangling off his wrists and cleats, holding a rugby ball under one arm. In the bottom corner, in white, square front: PRINCE CHARLES

For some reason, he kept sneaking back in to look at that picture. It had to be a candid, because even though the small smile on his face was shy, it was sunshine bright and  _ real,  _ Erik knew it was. As his mum climbed the political ranks, and the possibility of people knowing his name became more and more inevitable, he tried to channel some of Charles’s easy, quiet confidence. More than that, though, there was something about the picture that, for the first time in his life, made Erik feel  _ seen.  _ So to have met Charles and been looked right through, it cut Erik deep and raised his hackles, and not once has he dared to let them down.

By the time the song had finished, Erik was another three glasses down, and despite Magda’s pained groan, he’d pushed up from the table and met Charles as he edged back off the dancefloor, hands clasped genially behind his back, his eyes betraying nothing as Erik stood beside him, having picked up another glass from a passing tray.

“You know I gotta say, I expected at least two champagne fountains. Kinda puts a downer on the whole reception buzz if you’ve gotta queue for the champagne fountain.”

“Erik,” Charles says in that stupidly posh, scones and jam, butter-wouldn’t-melt accent. Upon closer inspection, his blue waistcoat has about a trillion buttons on it. Erik hates it. “I was wondering when I would have the pleasure. And you’re pissed. Lovely.”

“Suppose it’s your lucky day then.” He grins, taking another sip from his glass. “Seen any aunts you’re gonna try and get lucky with?”

Charles, maddeningly, just smiles, with all his pretty, white, square teeth. In his head, Erik knows Charles feels the same way about him the way he does about Charles, yet the bastard refuses to act like it, which should really make Erik take pause, or feel like a megalomaniac, but instead makes him hate Charles even more. He’s far too calm and far too collected, and Erik’s never known when to leave well enough alone.

“Do you ever get tired,” Erik says, “of pretending you’re above all this?”

Charles’s smile falters. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, you’re stood here on the outskirts of the dancefloor, pretending you don’t like the attention, which you clearly do, seeing as you’ve parked yourself next to the most expensive cake known to mankind,” he shoves his thumb over his shoulder toward the wedding cake on the table behind them, “ _ and  _ you were dancing with my sister. You act like you’re all high and mighty. Don’t you get tired?”

“I’m, er-” Charles clears his throat. “I’m a bit more complicated than that.”

Erik barks a laugh and Charles frowns.

“Oh,” he says, staring at Erik with his head cocked like one of those corgis, “you really are drunk.”

“Still,” Erik says, leaving an overly familiar elbow on Charles’s shoulder, which is laughably easy to do; he's so  _ short, _ “you could try to at least pretend you're having fun. You know, every now and then at least.”

“Maybe we should get you a glass of water, my friend.” He frowns, laughing ruefully when Erik shifts his weight and just about avoids stumbling.

“You know what I think.” Erik says, dropping his arm from Charles’s shoulder and pushing up to his full height, at least a whole five inches taller than Charles. “I think I confuse you. Everyone around here thinks the sun shines out your ass, but I don’t buy it. I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else and that’s confusing for you.”

“You know what?” Charles says. “I think you do.”

Erik’s smug grin withers and Charles’s mouth quirks.

“Just a thought,” he continues, ever polite, even as his face gets progressively more red. “Have you ever noticed that I’m nothing but civil with you, Erik? I’m nothing but polite and cordial, and yet you’re the one who seeks me out, every time we’re in the same room together.”   
“I’m not-” Erik gapes. “I don’t-”

“Enjoy the rest of the evening, Erik.” And then Charles turns on his heel and starts to walk away. Like fuck Erik’s gonna let that happen.

It all happens quickly after that. Erik reaches out to grab Charles’s shoulder, to turn him around so they can really hash it out. Charles turns too suddenly, and as he shrugs Erik’s shoulder off, Erik thinks for one splendid moment that Charles is going to push him away, and Erik is almost impressed at the steely glint in his eyes. 

The next thing he knows, though, is that he’s tripping over his own foot and stumbling backwards into the table behind him. The table holding the fucking cake.

He tries to grab Charles’s arm to catch himself, but all it does is dislodge Charles’s feet from under him, and then they’re both falling. 

Everything happens in almost slow motion. 

They hit the table, and the cake teeters, and for a glorious second he thinks it's going to stay put, but then he’s covered in $75,000 worth of vanilla sponge, jam, and buttercream, and the room is heart stoppingly silent, and he realises he’s still holding Charles’s sleeve. Then the flash from someone’s camera goes off.

His first thought, strangely, is that Ruth dancing with Charles won’t be the biggest story to come out of this wedding. His next thought, is that his mother is going to fucking eviscerate him.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on tumblr @hanbruoghs or on twitter @cherikisms !


End file.
